


what's past is prologue, what to come

by everyfragment



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Curtain Fic, Domestic Boyfriends, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Post-DADT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 10:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17201615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everyfragment/pseuds/everyfragment
Summary: Falling in love in violation of regulations is the worst thing that ever happened to Brad. He tells Ray this on lazy weekends when Ray hasn’t moved the laundry over to the dryer and keeps poking at Brad to do it instead.





	what's past is prologue, what to come

 

Brad wakes up first. Of course he wakes up first, with PT and the Marines still in his blood. Ray's sacked out, rolled into a cocoon of duvet, ass in the air and mouth open. He's getting drool all over Brad's pillow. Brad doesn't even bother nudging him back onto his own pillow, he just leans over, kisses Ray on the head, and gets up and out of bed.

The paper is on the stoop when he opens the front door, and the coffee machine has just started gurgling, so he won't have to suffer the headache that's brewing for much longer. He stretches, gets a bowl of cereal, and then settles down to read the headlines. 

Thirty minutes later, when he's dressed and about to walk out the door, Ray comes out of their bedroom, scratching his balls and the back of his head at the same time. Brad has to bite back the grin on his face.

"I'm going to need some industrial-sized bleach to get that image out of my head, Ray."

Ray stops in front of him, leans up on his tip-toes—and doesn't that just drive Brad up the wall—and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"Stop complaining, Marine, and get to work keeping my lily-white ass safe from whoever the fuck we're fighting now."

Brad smacks the aforementioned ass and puts on his hat.

"Pizza for dinner, tonight?"

Ray yawns.

"Sure. I'll be home around 5:30, so I guess I can get it."

Brad doesn't say 'thanks'. He doesn't say 'I love you'. He definitely doesn't linger at the door. He nods at Ray, who throws him the laziest salute he’s ever seen from someone that served under him, and steps out into the Californian sunshine.

 

* * *

 

Falling in love in violation of regulations is the worst thing that ever happened to Brad. He tells Ray this on lazy weekends when Ray hasn’t moved the laundry over to the dryer and keeps poking at Brad to do it instead. Brad always does, but not before shoving Ray off the couch and making him lose at Flappy Bird.

Kocher had met Ray first, before they’d even shipped out to Afghanistan. There was a night of merriment at Oceanside and somehow, Kocher had ended up becoming best buddies with a bunch of kids making their way through recon training. Brad heard about them in passing, but mostly ignored the stories he was told.

They didn’t really meet till Afghanistan, and then Ray was suddenly everywhere, laughing at Kocher’s jokes, learning how to shoot straight from Pappy, talking back to Brad like it was his new favourite hobby. Brad had never felt like he was drowning when he was with Tricia, but every conversation with Ray made him feel less sure-footed, less in control, off-balance in a way that he hadn’t felt since he’d joined up.

The worst bit was the sheer competence that oozed from Ray’s fingertips on every single mission they went on. The stories that Brad heard now—that Brad sought out now—were entirely about the lives he’d saved, the comms he’d unfucked, the officers who grudgingly admitted he may not be as much of a dumb hick as they’d initially assumed.

He had asked for Ray to be assigned to his team before they’d even left Afghanistan. If Brad had had any sense of self-preservation, he wouldn’t have enlisted.

 

* * *

  

They have dinner on the porch, beer at their feet, and the distant sound of waves punctuating the lulls in conversation. Ray tells Brad about his day without him having to ask: complains about meetings and managers who don’t have their shit together enough to know how to ask for what they want.

“Civilian life has made you weak,” Brad says, then grins over at Ray because he loves making him roll his eyes extravagantly slowly. Ray kicks him, too, for good measure, and then leans more heavily on Brad.

Brad tells him about his days when there’s anything of note to mention. He always tells Ray the gossip when he hears it, but Ray still has enough connections on- and off-base (there’s a WhatsApp thread, apparently) that he ends up filling Brad in more often than not.

There’s nothing to tell today, so Brad talks about the phone he wants to get next weekend, about the work he’s going to do on the truck Wednesday evening when Ray goes to dinner with his colleagues, about the radio program he was listening to on his drive to Pendleton.

The sun sets somewhere behind them and dusk sets in over their yard.

 

* * *

 

They had gotten even closer when they got back to Pendleton, and Brad had gone through what Ray now calls his pussy ass masochist martyr bullshit, and what Brad calls respecting the chain of command. They’d trained together, worked together, drunk together, and sometimes gone home together when Ray insisted he couldn’t stomach the barracks for another night. Brad had a spare bedroom that soon ended up holding half of Ray’s limited wardrobe, and more than half of his bookshelf. Brad hadn’t said anything about it, and he definitely hadn’t spent any of his weekends sitting on the spare bed and sniffing Ray’s pillow, no matter what Ray now claims.

Ray had dated women, two of whom Brad got to meet and hate on sight. Brad slept with hookers and people he picked up at bars and forgot about before the night was even over.

Ray told him years later that he had gotten drunk right after Afghanistan and losing his virginity, and had spent a night crying on Walt’s shoulder about how he might be gay for Iceman. According to Ray, neither he nor Walt had mentioned the conversation (or the crying) until they were in Kuwait and had hours and miles of nothingness to fill their time.

Brad didn’t tell anyone anything until they were in Baghdad and he felt like everything in his life was spiralling out of control, including Ray.

 

* * *

 

It’s not like it’s a cold night, but Ray runs cold, has always needed that extra layer to keep his nipples looking less like they could cut glass. Ray takes their plates in while Brad checks his phone, then comes back out with a giant blanket and two more beers.

“Dinner with Poke tomorrow,” Brad says when Ray’s settled again, his legs hooked on top of Brad’s. 

“Fuck, homes. We were just over last week. Can’t you at least give him enough time to start missing me?”

“There’s not enough time in the world for that to happen, you fucking degenerate. Also, it was three weeks ago, and Gina’s asking because we missed Soph’s graduation.”

Ray’s face softens and Brad raises an eyebrow at just how weak he is.

“We can swing by the bookstore before we head over and get her a present.” 

Brad chokes slightly on his beer then, and starts to cough while Ray lets out a peal of delighted laughter.

“You giant fucking softie, you already got her something, didn’t you? I don’t know why they call you the Iceman, homes, you’re a fucking Viking marshmallow, all gooey and ready to chew on.”

“I didn’t know when we’d be seeing them next and I wanted to be prepared, Ray. Some of us like being prepared.” Brad protests, when he’s finally stopped coughing. He shoves at Ray until Ray’s chuckling subsides.

They stay outside until Brad’s legs start to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

Brad tries not to think about OIF any more than he has to.

The hours had bled into each other in a way they hadn’t in Afghanistan, and everyone wore their disillusionment on their sleeves. Brad had found himself leaning heavily on Ray before they’d even left Kuwait, like a fucking undignified officer who couldn’t find his own asshole without a grunt holding up a mirror for him.

Ray had pimped himself out to the entire company, fixing up their humvees and comms after he’d finished up on their victor. Brad, meanwhile, put a laptop screen in between himself and the rest of his platoon until Ray came back to the tent, carrying the mail, or a stained copy of Jugs, or skittles that he promised he was going to use to train Trombley to be a better Marine (“Like Pavlov, Brad. I’ll be like fucking Pavlov!”).

Brad would stand up then, and shout for Ray to come over to him so they could work together on something, anything. Ray had spent most of his evenings in Kuwait entertaining Bravo while plastered against Brad’s side, answering whatever questions Brad threw his way.

He had known, even before Baghdad, just how absolutely fucking fucked he was. Days and nights sat next to Ray, singing to Ray, letting Ray cheer him up when everything about the fucking situation they were in was getting him down. It was always going to get to him, but it wasn’t like he could fucking stop.

Ray was too out of it to notice though, high on antihistamines, Ripped Fuel, and the perpetual lack of sleep.

Then Baghdad happened, with Ray finally shutting up and scaring Brad shitless, then getting into a fucking fight with _Rudy_ of all people, and scaring Brad so out of his mind that he almost managed to find the words he’d been trying to squash for so long.

He’d tried to start with “we need to talk”, then with “I need you to be okay”. He tried to tell Ray that he’d kept him sane here, and that he needed some space and absolutely did not want a single inch between them all at once. Nothing had come out. Brad slid down the wall until he was settled next to Ray, both their backs propped up against the grey walls of a soccer stadium. Ray was still shaking slightly when he turned to Brad and grinned, sharp and bitter, and asked him why he was even here.

“You’re my RTO,” Brad had said, reaching for something and coming up so short.

“And what happens when that ends, homes?”

Brad had nearly drowned twice in his life. He knew what it felt like to lose all control, to be at the mercy of waves that didn’t give a shit whether he lived or died. He had looked at Ray, then, and listened to the waves crash around him, in him, drowning out every other sound.

Ray had to have seen something in his face then, he had to have noticed something because his eyes had softened, and Brad felt the noise in his head quiet when Ray stroked his wrist with his thumb. 

“Brad.” 

Brad had closed his eyes, then, and let himself breath in and out, concentrating on nothing but Ray’s loose grip on him.  

Seventy two hours later, when Ray had driven them back to Mathilda, when they were on the plane back, when everyone else was either crowded around Manimal or asleep, Brad had reached out and closed his fingers around Ray’s wrist.

Ray had looked up from his book, and smiled at Brad.

“What’s up, homes?”

“You’re going to stay with me while we’re on libo, right?”

“Fucking duh. Barracks don’t have HBO, dude!”

Brad had started to say something else, but Ray had just kept grinning at him, slipping his palm into Brad’s, threading their fingers together and squeezing before letting go.

Brad didn’t sleep for the rest of the trip back.

 

* * *

 

Neither of them ever get enough sleep. They end up in front of the TV more nights than not, Ray half-watching, half-reading whatever’s at hand, Brad fucking around on his computer and poking Ray anytime anything on screen catches his attention. They’ve been making their way through Next Generation again for the past few months and Ray has even let Brad tell him every single nerd fact he’s ever memorized about this show without mocking him every other minute.

They sit in their living room on the couch that Ray picked out, Brad facing the TV that Ray’s mother gave them as an incredibly extravagant Christmas present that they’re still trying to convince her she can’t afford. Ray has his legs up over the back so his feet brush the back of Brad’s neck, and Brad doesn’t even hit him more than once.

“So, this book you got Soph…” Ray starts.

“I never said I got her a book.”

“We both know you got her a fucking book, Brad. What book did you get her?”

Brad deflates and wishes he’d picked up the chemistry set he’d been considering instead.

“Something about inspiring women in leadership, or some other bullshit,” Brad mutters.

“Cool, that’ll make Gina happy. Soph’s been asking for a copy of _Holes_ for a while, and I was thinking of giving her mine.”

Brad thinks about Ray’s copy of the book, each page annotated with his interpretations, his opinions, his asides. Ray had once told him that he thought _Holes_ was the perfect American novel and had only let Brad borrow his copy after they’d been sleeping together for a year. Brad’s breath catches when he thinks about Sophia’s face when she sees the dog-eared copy presented to her and he reaches behind him to rub Ray’s ankle.

Ray just smiles at him and turns to the next page.

When it’s late enough that he knows she’ll be home, Brad calls his mother and has to put up with both her and Ray demanding that he put the call on speaker.

“How’s tricks, Esther?” Ray shouts over Brad’s shoulder, and Brad rolls his eyes and just lets them chat to each other the way they want to.

“I’m doing very well, Ray, how was the product meeting yesterday?”

Brad groans and puts the TV on mute because they’re clearly not going to be getting back to their Star Trek marathon any time soon.

Ray sticks both his feet under Brad and Brad shakes his head at him as he rants about terrible clients and managers again. His mother tells them about the potluck she hosted over the weekend and then promises to send Ray her sweet potato soup recipe when he begs her for it.

 “That’s enough, you two,” Brad says finally, when they start talking about how one of his mother’s friend’s latest paramours has an ugly tattoo, and he can feel them getting dangerously close to criticizing Brad territory.

“Okay, honey,” his mother says, easily and like she wasn’t just mid-story. “We’ll see you next week for dinner. Bring your pumpkin pie!”

Brad hangs up and mock glares at Ray until he pulls himself into Brad’s lap, grabbing Brad’s neck and licking into his mouth like it’s some kind of fucking greeting or apology.

“Fucking undignified,” Brad says between kisses.

“Come on, homes. You love baking that shit. And you can get extra pumpkin and eat it off me when you’re done.”

Brad bites down on Ray’s collarbone then, and then pulls his head back down to swallow his moan.

 

* * *

 

Brad had watched so many of his brothers lay down their arms and walk away from the only life he knew the minute they had returned to Pendleton. The worst part was he understood.

OIF has been an unmitigated disaster, and anyone that wasn’t career through and through or still had a brain cell left was absolutely right to leave the Corps. Still, it was hard to go to paddle party after paddle party, saying the same shit again and again, and realizing that there was a chance he wouldn’t see many of these faces again.

Before the paddle parties began, though, before the summer had even kicked into full swing, Ray had gotten into the cab with him and they’d driven in silence back to Brad’s. Ray had called his mother up, and Brad had picked up both their things and taken them down the hallway.

Ray had found him in the kitchen when he was done and taken the beer he was offered. They had stood there in uncharacteristic but welcome silence, just listening to each other breathe.

“When are you going back to the trailer park that spat you out?” Brad had asked, finally.

“I’m not sure,” Ray had said. His mother was working, and she wanted to come to California for a change of scenery. Brad had offered to have her stay with them, and Ray had quirked an eyebrow and the corners of his lips. Brad hadn’t been able to look away for several seconds.

They’d both eventually started to yawn, and Ray had started towards the bedrooms first. He’d stopped short when he saw all their gear stowed between the two bedroom doors. 

“Brad, did you fucking forget which room was yours?”

Brad had given into panicked silence, and to his complete fucking inability to explain what he was thinking when he hadn’t wanted to make assumptions about where Ray would want to—where Ray _should_ —sleep, and Ray had turned around and seen everything on his face.

“Wait till I tell everyone that you’re only cold as ice ‘cause you get frozen that way by your fucking emotions, man.”

But Ray’s voice had been soft, and he’d taken Brad’s hand in his own and stepped closer until all Brad could do was lean down into the kiss. They’d stood there, their noses bumping, breathing each other in like fucking teenagers who were just learning that they could touch each other.

Ray had finally huffed a laugh against him, pulled back and dragged his bags into Brad’s bedroom. Brad had followed, trying not to look too smug.

They’d been closed up in Brad’s house, on the porch, at the beach, barely seeing anyone who didn’t come banging on the door for two weeks before Ray had turned to Brad, slid his hands up Brad’s shirt, and told him he wasn’t re-upping.

Brad had accepted the transfer to the Royal Marines the next day.

 

* * *

 

Ray’s side of the closet is a controlled mess, but only because Brad’s around to control it. They had Skyped when he first went to England and he had seen glimpses of what his room had become in the three days he’d been gone. He had paid for a cleaning crew to arrive five hours before he landed when he first came home, and Ray had bitched about it for days after.

Ray just throws his clothes into the closet when they get ready for bed, now. Brad folds his and puts them back in their correct place, as sanctimoniously as he can. Ray doesn’t even notice it these days. 

“Did you pick up more floss?” Ray calls over his shoulder as he’s walking to the bathroom. 

He didn’t.

“I don’t know how a buck-toothed sister-fucking hick like yourself even learned about floss, Ray,” he says, in lieu of an apology. “Surely you’re used to using a shoelace, instead?”

Ray leans out of the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth and makes sure Brad’s looking at him before he rolls his eyes.

“Fuck you, homes, we’re nearly out and I hate it when I make the dentist sad. He complains to Doc every time, and then Doc bitches me out about having to hear about my fucked up grill again.”

Brad makes a face and wonders why all their medical professionals are ex-Navy men who know each other. 

“If it shuts you up, you can use the last of it.”

Ray rolls his eyes again and ducks back into the bathroom. Brad can hear the water running so he feels okay quietly telling his phone to remind him to pick up floss and Ray’s favourite beer on his way home tomorrow.

When Brad finally crawls into bed, Ray’s already under the covers, eyes drooping as he tries to scroll through whatever’s on his phone.

Brad turns off the light and kicks at the duvet until he’s satisfied with how it’s lying on them both. Ray’s phone is slack in his grip and Brad takes it out of his hands and puts it on the bedside table next to him.

“Oh yeah, stick your armpit right in my face just like that, baby.” 

Brad huffs a laugh and drops himself down on Ray, his armpit landing squarely on Ray’s face.

Ray licks him.

“Jesus, that’s disgusting Person.” But he’s laughing now and so’s Ray.

Brad shifts slightly and lets Ray rearrange them until they’re both comfortable, with Brad’s head on Ray’s chest and Ray’s legs hooked on top of his.

“What if we have eggs for breakfast tomorrow?” Ray asks, just as Brad’s starting to drift off.

“If you wake up in time to make me eggs, I’ll give you a blowjob before I leave.”

“Ha, you think I won’t wake up now that _that’s_ on the table? You better get your jaw ready for my fucking dick, Br—”

Brad shoves his palm onto Ray’s face to shut him up and lets the warmth take over. He counts Ray’s soft wheezes as he drifts off again.

* * *

 


End file.
